


Take The Long Way

by sunsetmog



Series: Soup [1]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Schmoop, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Spence," he said, sadly, clutching his cellphone to his ear. "I'm miserable. The most miserable. I'm sick."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take The Long Way

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the schmoop_bingo prompt "cuddling while sick". Thank you to elucreh for looking this over for me. For ashlein.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/53025.html) on 19th July 2010.

"I am the most miserable I've ever been," Brendon proclaimed, miserably, coming in from the kitchen and collapsing on the couch. He coughed, and kicked a pile of old magazines off the end and on to the floor. "Spence," he said, sadly, clutching his cellphone to his ear. "I'm miserable. The most miserable. I'm _sick_."

"You are not sick," Spencer told him, huffing out a breath down the other end of the phone. Spencer had _left him_ , left him to go to the grocery store and buy food, what the fuck. There were perfectly good take-out menus by the phone, Brendon didn't know why Spencer had to go and actually _leave_. "You have a cold, Brendon. A _cold_."

"I might die," Brendon said, sadly. He coughed, piteously. His chest ached and he coughed again, reaching for a tissue. "I'm coughing up _phlegm_ ," he told Spencer. He opened the tissue up. "Hey, you want to know what color it is?"

"No," Spencer said, quickly. "Wait, is it red or anything?"

"No," Brendon said. "It's yellow. With green bits."

"Oh my fucking god," Spencer said. "You are disgusting. Why am I even friends with you? That's horrifying."

"I'm _dying_ ," Brendon said. "Hey, you think you could pick me up some more Lucky Charms? I totally ate the end of that box last night."

Spencer made a noise. "Anything else?" he asked. "I have tissues, oranges, lemons, honey, tea, Tylenol, ice cream, soup, some more soup, more soup, and milk. You need anything else?"

Brendon made as piteous a noise as he could manage. "Cookies," he said. "The kind with chocolate chips. Oreos, because Bogart likes those. Oh, dog food, too. And mac and cheese for me -"

"Oh my _god_ ," Spencer said, again, cutting Brendon off. "You have a _cold_. You are not dying. I am going to the register now, and anything else you need you can come out and get yourself. That's it."

"A magazine," Brendon said. "I need magazines. To read in my death bed."

"You really will be in your death bed if you don't shut up and leave me alone," Spencer said, exasperatedly.

"See how you like it if I _die_ ," Brendon said, portentously. He hung up, and reached for the TV remote. It was too far away, and he would have to _move_. It all seemed far too much work. He wondered if he could teach Bogart or Penny Lane to fetch it for him. "Hey, Bogart," he called. Bogart was spending some quality time reclining on his side in front of the bookshelf in the corner, snoring in what would be an adorable manner, if he wasn't required for important fetching duties. Brendon used the bookshelf for important things like magazines, old bowls of cereal, the Kama Sutra and Sudoku XXX. Brendon had yet to understand how Sudoku could in any way be x-rated, but Spencer had assured him it could be when he'd given it to Brendon for his birthday, and what Spencer said usually tended to be true. Apart from how Spencer didn't think that Brendon was _dying_.

Bogart ignored him, and Penny Lane might be the cutest dog in the whole of LA, no, the whole of _California_ , but she was also possibly the stupidest. She tended to get lost under a blanket, and when Brendon had tried to get her through puppy school, she'd been the dog who'd graduated with a rubber bone. And she'd been delighted, too. Brendon had been proud, in his own rueful way. Secretly he'd been hoping that she would be the new Lassie, but that didn't look like it would happen. He called her over anyway, and she curled up by his side and gave him the odd enthusiastic lick. "You will get sick and die too," Brendon told her, solemnly, but she ignored him in favor of snuggling closer, and falling asleep on his chest.

Brendon coughed a few times, miserably, and he decided it was high time he had a nap.

~*~

He was woken up by Spencer letting himself in and making tons of noise in the hallway. Bogart and Penny Lane—who both adored Spencer, because they were smart like that—yapped excitedly and probably ran around Spencer's feet, getting in his way.

"Brendon," Spencer yelled, "your dogs are the worst behaved dogs in the whole world."

"They are not," Brendon said, from the couch. Being sick required lots of reclining, and anyway, he was dying, so he wasn't going to get up, not even for his guest. Spencer didn't really count as a guest, anyway, because he totally had his own key and didn't spend that much time at his own place in any case. "They just like you, is all."

Spencer liked them back, no matter how much he yelled about tripping over them and skidding in dog pee (like, one time. Penny Lane had been a baby) and when he came into the living room, he had Penny Lane in one arm and Bogart in the other.

"Your dogs are misbehaving again," Spencer said, reprovingly.

"They're just excited," Brendon said, waving his arm about. He coughed again, and his chest ached, and his nose was all sore and his throat hurt. His head felt all—muffled. He coughed again, so hard his eyes watered, and then he had to sit up because he couldn't breathe properly. He felt very miserable indeed.

Spencer sighed, and came back with a glass of water and two Tylenol and a box of tissues. He swept all of Brendon's used tissues into a bag with one hand, knotting the bag closed by its handles. Then he drop-kicked the bag out into the hall, and squeezed out a liberal amount of anti-bacterial hand gel into his hand. "I don't want your cold," he said, to Brendon, after he'd finished rubbing his hands together. "Hands out."

Brendon held his hands out, and Spencer squeezed out some hand cleanser onto his palm.

"Rub," Spencer instructed, and Brendon meekly rubbed his hands together until the liquid had evaporated and the room smelt like alcohol. "I'm making you honey and lemon," he said, after a moment, and he marched out of the living room, Bogart and Penny Lane at his heels.

When he came back, he threw a blanket at Brendon's head. "Get under that," he said.

"I am very sick," Brendon said, piteously, hugging the blanket to him. "I think you should come and put it over me."

Spencer made a noise in his throat. "When I'm sick, you're going to come over and do all this shit for me, right?"

"Aha!" Brendon said, sitting up. "You admit it! I'm sick!" His vision swam for a moment, and he coughed again, and then again. Everything hurt.

"Yes," Spencer said, rolling his eyes. "You are sick. You are the sickest anybody has ever been. I am amazed you are still managing to talk when you're so sick."

Spencer sounded sarcastic, but Brendon managed a smile. "I knew it," he said, as cheerfully as he could manage. He didn't really feel cheerful. He felt sick and full of cold and pretty miserable. His head hurt and he hated coughing and he always had these weird paranoid dreams about how when he got better again he couldn't sing or his voice had changed. He hated being sick.

"Don't move," Spencer said. Brendon didn't really want to, so he stayed right where he was, on the couch with the blanket over his knees. He felt cold even though the weather outside was balmy and Californian.

When Spencer came back, he had a pillow under one arm, a mug of hot honey and lemon in the other, a DVD in his mouth and a pack of cookies balanced precariously on top of the pillow. "Soup's on the stove," he said, depositing everything but the drink on Brendon's lap. The DVD was Flight of the Navigator, and it had clearly been on sale in the grocery store. "So one cookie now, and the rest after you've eaten, okay?"

Brendon nodded. "I'm _sick_ ," he said, miserably, because he really was, and he felt worse now than he had done that morning.

Spencer sighed, and dropped his hand to Brendon's shoulder. "I know," he said, and Brendon didn't feel up to replying, so he just leaned into Spencer's hand instead. He felt pretty sorry for himself.

"I've got to set up the DVD, Bren," Spencer said, after a minute.

Brendon nodded, sadly. "You're all warm," he said.

Spencer frowned. "Are you cold?"

"Freezing," Brendon admitted, and Spencer left the DVD loading up to disappear upstairs. "Don't look at my porn," Brendon called after him, but his throat hurt and he couldn't shout. He sipped at the honey and lemon instead.

"Like I don't know what you jerk off to," Spencer yelled back, but when he came back he had Brendon's big O'Neill hoodie in his hand. "Put this on," he instructed.

Brendon was still cold. He was never cold. He felt very miserable indeed, especially when Spencer pressed play and then sat all the way across the room in the armchair.

"Come sit over here," Brendon said.

"No way am I catching your germs," Spencer said. "Over here is fine."

Brendon didn't much like that. "I'm _cold_ ," he complained. "And miserable. Being sick sucks."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Are you going to whine all the way through the movie?" he said, exasperatedly.

"Yes," Brendon said, piteously. He sneezed, and reached for a tissue to blow his nose. Afterwards, he opened it up for a look. "Hey, you want to see what color my snot is?"

"Oh my god," Spencer said. "No. If I come over there, you have to promise to keep your snot all to yourself."

"Okay," Brendon agreed. He shuffled over to make room for Spencer on the couch, and Spencer sat down, complaining loudly. "Shut up," Brendon said. "You're talking over the movie. I hate that." He arranged the blanket over them both, and then leaned heavily against Spencer. "Where are the dogs?"

"Eating their dinner, I guess," Spencer said. "I put it out for them, at least. It's a bit early, but whatever. They're hungry, and you're being a pain in the ass."

Brendon nodded, and rested his cheek against Spencer's shoulder. His head didn't ache so much if he sat like this.

Spencer sighed, and wrapped his arm around Brendon's shoulder. "You are such a dick when you're ill," he said, into Brendon's hair.

Brendon didn't say anything, snuggling closer.

Spencer rearranged the blanket over them both, and sighed.

"Don't feel well," Brendon said finally.

"I know," Spencer said. "That's the only reason I'm letting you get away with this sneak limpet attack, Brendon, I hope you know."

"It's not sneaky," Brendon maintained. He shivered again, and coughed, miserably. "I just like it, that's all."

"Yeah," Spencer said. "One more minute and then I'm going to get the soup, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon said, but he didn't make any move to let Spencer stand up. He was comfortable, and Spencer always smelled a whole lot better than Brendon's actual pillow, which didn't smell like Spencer at all. "I think you smell good," he said, finally. He rubbed his nose across Spencer's shirt.

"You only _think_?" Spencer said. He sounded amused.

"I have a bunged up nose," Brendon said, loftily. As loftily as he could manage when he couldn't actually breathe and his throat hurt and his head ached, anyway. "Normally you smell good, shut up."

"You notice how I smell normally?" Spencer asked, a little weirdly.

"Sometimes," Brendon lied, shrugging. "The soup's going to burn."

"Yeah," Spencer said. He pushed Brendon away, but with less force than he might have done normally. "Drink your tea."

"Aye aye, sir," Brendon said, with a mock-salute. He curled up against the arm of the couch, and folded the pillow up under his head. He felt terrible, and he really didn't want soup, even if Spencer had bought it specially. He just wanted to lay here and die quietly, in peace.

"You're eating it even if you don't want to," Spencer said, even though Brendon hadn't said _anything_. He paused the movie, and dropped the remote on the couch by Brendon's feet.

"Wasn't thinking that," Brendon told him. He closed his eyes, and hugged the tissue box. His nose hurt.

"Don't you fall asleep, either," Spencer said, disappearing into the kitchen. "I'm waking you up if you do."

"I need my sleep," Brendon croaked, because his throat was raw.

"You need to eat something," Spencer told him. Brendon could hear him pottering about in the kitchen, cupboard doors opening, the cutlery drawer. Brendon thought about moving, but he didn't. "You'll feel better."

"Won't," Brendon said, sulkily, but when Spencer came back in with a bowl of soup on a Spongebob Squarepants tray, he sat up, albeit grumpily.

"Eat that," Spencer said, waiting until Brendon was sat up and comfortable before depositing the tray in Brendon's lap. "All of it."

"You get all order-y when I'm sick," Brendon said, taking a cautious spoonful. He couldn't really taste it, but it didn't taste _bad_ , which was a win.

"You get all stupid when you're sick," Spencer said. He lifted up the blanket and sat down next to Brendon, wrapping it around their legs. "Someone needs to make sure you're eating and shit."

"Uh-huh," Brendon hummed.

"How's the soup?"

"Good," Brendon said, taking another spoonful.

The movie played in the background, and Brendon tried to concentrate on it, but he couldn't, not really. His head felt fuzzy and the soup tasted funny on his tongue. He tried to get past two thirds of the bowl, but he felt too shitty.

"It's okay," Spencer said finally, taking the tray away and dumping it on the floor by the couch. "You don't have to finish it, not really."

"Don't feel well," Brendon complained, dropping his cheek to Spencer's shoulder.

Spencer sighed, and wrapped an arm around Brendon's shoulders. "I know," he said, and he tucked the blanket all around Brendon. "That better?"

"Yeah," Brendon lied, because he felt shivery and cold, even with the blanket. "Don't let me die, Spence," he said. "I'm too young to die. You'd have to tour alone." He coughed, miserably.

"Okay," Spencer said. "Although I'm pretty sure you're not going to die of the _flu_."

"People do," Brendon told him, sleepily. "They do all the time. And I am _very sick_."

"You're really annoying when you're like this, you know," Spencer said. His hand was in Brendon's hair, and Brendon liked the way it felt, stroking the nape of his neck.

"I am not annoying," Brendon said. "Stop telling such terrible lies about me." He snuggled closer. "You're talking over the movie, Spence. If this is the last movie I ever get to watch before my tragic demise, it's important that I get to remember all of it."

"You're falling asleep," Spencer said. "You're not even watching."

"Shut up, am not," Brendon lied.

"Liar," Spencer said, and tugged Brendon even closer, his arm around Brendon's shoulders.

That was a sneaky limpet attack, Brendon thought, almost asleep, but he wasn't sure he minded all that much.


End file.
